


Miles to Go Before I Sleep

by Hllangel



Category: Mary Russell - Laurie R. King, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Future Fic, Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-20
Updated: 2008-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 04:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1630493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hllangel/pseuds/Hllangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the unthinkable finally happens, Russell must turn to old friends in order to fulfill one last promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miles to Go Before I Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my wonderful beta, Karaokegal, who kept me from many cliches and repetition, even while unfamiliar with the books herself. I've never tried my hand at writing Russell, so I hope you like the result!
> 
> Written for lyonie17

 

 

_My little horse must think it queer_  
To stop without a farmhouse near  
Between the woods and frozen lake  
The darkest evening of the year.

***

My second visit to Palestine started in much the same manner as the first: it was the dead of night and I, with my guide, was doing my best to be invisible. I was even handed over to the same pair of men as we reached the shore, though their reaction this time was vastly different. I said a quick goodbye to my guide and stole silently along the docks at the heels of Ali and Mahmoud Hazr, listening to the quiet lilt of the Arabic language on their tongues. I paid little mind to what they were actually saying, preferring to let the once terrifying, now-familiar sounds and smells of the port wash over me.

The journey to the same dark, low room was shorter than I remembered, though it was likely due to the absence of abject terror rather than the hide-away actually moving. Ali handed me a tightly wrapped bundle, and while Mahmoud set about making coffee, I disappeared behind a curtain to transform myself into Amir for the first time in fifteen years. The clothes were new, but I settled into the persona as though I were greeting an old friend. I emerged with my turban settled firmly on my head just as the rhythmic sounds of the ritual coffee grinding started.

Neither man spoke to me, and I chose not to speak at all. Instead, I dropped to my heels by the fire, letting myself be lulled into a trance by the flickering and gentle popping of the flames. The last year had been extremely trying, hence my escape to Palestine. Mycroft had offered me any number of odd jobs but I'd turned them all down, choosing a flight into the arms of friends rather than acquaintances with dangerous tasks waiting for me. The endless stream of cases were _his_ work, not mine.

I could hardly ignore the possibility that there would be a job suited to my particular skills here. Given the current political climate in the Holy Land, I would be extremely naive not to recognize that my abilities would likely prove extremely valuable for any situation that might fall into my lap. I was, however, satisfied that I had not sought out such a situation. 

Ali and Mahmoud continued to talk quietly on the other side of the fire while I stayed where I was, silent and motionless. One of them handed me a small cup of coffee, and I drank gratefully. The smell and taste of Arabic coffee is unlike anything else I have encountered in my travels, and sure enough, the strong, spiced beverage soon brought me out of my trance and I met the eyes of my companions for the first time.

"Welcome home, Amir," Mahmoud said with a crooked smile. 

Though it had been well after midnight when we finished our coffee and curled up to sleep, we set out at first light for the desert. My fingers quickly remembered their way around the ropes and bundles that held all of our supplies, and my presence was helpful rather than hindering as we left the city. 

Just as it had been the last time, the clear desert air was cleansing. The grief of the past year still clung to me but it felt lighter, more far away. Here, I could remember a time before he'd fallen ill, before irritability over his own inaction had taken over. My memories of the two of us here, perilous though our adventures had been, were untainted by the struggles of the last year, and I could finally remember him as he used to be.

We walked many miles that first day; Holmes would be ashamed of me; I lost count of our distance around midday. I was perfectly content to walk a step or two behind my friends, not because of my gender, which in any case was masked, but because I needed the solitude. While I did not wish to be on my own, I nonetheless wanted as little interaction as could be tolerated in polite society. Out here, the requirements were much less than at home. It was perfect.

For days we wandered, Mahmoud still acting as a scribe for the desert-dwellers, still collecting information for His Majesty. Each night we set two tents, and I retired to one of them alone.

***

Weeks bled into months, and before I knew it, it had been a full year since his death. I'd recited the Kaddish every morning, but the actual dates escaped me until I caught sight of the letter Mahmoud was writing for a local farmer. I grabbed hold of the pack ropes to steady myself, and took a few deep breaths. Ali was immediately at my side, pulling me away from the meeting and over to the well. After a few seconds at the pump, he was pushing a cup of cool water into my hands. I drank gratefully, and immediately felt better physically. I had long ago learned to deal with loss, but it had been many years since I had felt so adrift and without purpose. 

That night, with the rhythmic pounding of Mahmoud's coffee grinding in the background, Ali broke his self-imposed silence on the subject, and asked me about Holmes. He spoke in English, but after so many months wandering in Palestine, the language felt odd on my tongue and I replied in Arabic. 

"He would have been happier to be killed earlier, in pursuit of a case, or even just slipping on ice in London. Getting sick was not what he wanted, and he persisted in continuing his lifestyle until he absolutely couldn't. That was when I lost him, six months before.

I told Ali of my husband's last request. After Uncle John had given the bleak prognosis, I went to Holmes. 

*

_"Promise me something, Russell," he said. "Promise that you won't lose yourself when I'm gone."_

"I hardly think I'd suddenly become a simpering housewife, Holmes," I replied with a snort.

When I met his eyes, he was as serious as he had ever been.. 

"Holmes -" I started, matching his tone.

"When I met you, you had a tendency to bury yourself in one task or another, which while productive, is detrimental in the long run when there is no one to pull you back. Do not interrupt me to defend yourself, Russell, I was the same, once upon a time. Long ago, before you became aware that you were doing it, you kept me from self-destruction. I fear that once I'm gone you will have no one to do the same for you."

"I will do my best," I told him, "I cannot promise you more than that."

He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but refrained from doing so. 

"Go to Ali and Mahmoud," he said. The use of their Arabic names rather than their proper English names was telling. I was not to remain on English soil. Perhaps he was right. "Do not return to Oxford straight away." 

*

I had kept my promise, staying with him for those last six months, as he grew more weak and irritable. After the funeral, I stayed for three months, just long enough to put my affairs in order for an absence of undetermined length. Through Mycroft's connections, I was able to get to Palestine despite the unrest of both the Continent and Palestine itself. 

Finally, I understood the spirit of what I had promised all those months ago. I had been wandering at the heels of my friends, but I had not been living. Had I been in Oxford, I would have stayed in Bodlean longer and longer hours, ignoring my own well-being for some arbitrary task I would feel must be completed. 

The desert was what I needed, and Holmes knew it. There was no room out here for anything but survival. For months, Ali and Mahmoud had been keeping me on my feet; no more.

That night, I made a true effort to be part of the discussion over the fire: where we were going next, what we had found and what was happening in the country. I met Ali's eye as I retired to my tent, and sure enough, he followed me. 

He could not have been more different from Holmes, but his presence and fierce protectiveness comforted me. I drifted off to sleep in his arms, knowing with absolute certainty that I had fulfilled my last promise. 

 


End file.
